


Sleepwalker

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2011, Community: sharp_teeth, Gen, Horror, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleepwalking is dangerous with dreams like Sam's and Dean's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepwalker

**Author's Note:**

> [Notes [here](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/230371.html).]

Sam's nightmares are never the same.

*

Dean is dying and the hellhounds are scratching his face in long stripes of flesh, exposing the white of the bones underneath: the flat plates of the skull, the curve of the jaw, his white, regular teeth. Sam knows it's a nightmare because, when it'd happened, the hellhounds had left Dean's face oddly untouched. Only the drops of blood across his pasty skin had shattered the illusion that Dean was only sleeping when Sam had finally closed his eyes.

*

Sam's back is cold and his left leg is asleep, and the open door lets in a colder draft of air that makes him shiver.

"Dude," Dean says, "it's not like the bathroom is an improvement from the rest of the room."

Sam stands up, alarmed and ashamed. He tries for a smile that falls against the paleness of Dean's face, his red-rimmed eyes, and the tension around his mouth.

"Next time, at least bring a pillow," Dean says quietly before going away.

Sam, hands on the sink, shakes the pin and needles from his leg.

*

The demons in Sam's dreams are in every face he's ever met. Their eyes are black as ink and shiny like obsidian; their lips are turned upward in all-knowing smiles. They are teachers, and passers-by, and roommates and friends and prom dates and all the people he'd considered friendly. They walk alongside him: a sea stolen arms and misleading words that block Sam's path.

*

Sam's pancakes are drowning in syrup and his coffee is weak and too hot.

Dean lets his fork fall on the plate with a muted clank, food untouched. He looks outside when he says, "Maybe, we should hang a bell around your neck."

"Maybe," Sam says and swallows a forkful of too sweet food.

Dean throws a glance his way and there must be something on Sam's face that's either funny or terrifying. His throaty, loose, _hysterical_ laugh draws the attention of the other loner patron.

When he can talk again, tears in his eyes, Dean says, "God, we're so screwed."

Sam nods and sips his coffee. Dean's face had terrified him too.

*

Certain nights, the dreams are hot like fire, an impenetrable wall of heat and light that dance a yellow and red dance. Sam's consumed with thirst, lips dry with the need to look at the other side, his limbs frozen in place with a sense of revulsion. He stands, perpetually caught in not knowing, face burning and back chilled, arms and hands alive with flames.

*

The poke on his shoulder is gentle. When he opens his eyes, Sam only sees wallpaper on the wall. The floor is hard under his ass. The blanket he's wrapped around smells of his sweat, the texture rough around his naked ankles.

"You awake?" Dean asks and Sam looks up and wants to say he's sorry for putting the panic on Dean's face, but he only nods and purses his lips at the shadow of a bruise on Dean's neck.

"You were hell-bent on going outside," he says by way of explanation, then pats Sam's leg and stands up.

Sam is chilly even under the blanket, the floor hard under his ass.

"Do you think it'll get better?" he asks.

Dean doesn't answer for a long time. Sam holds his breath, lets it go only when Dean says, "You're only stressed, Sam. It'll get better."

Sam goes for breakfast that morning, brings back pie and strong, black coffee.

*

Tonight, Sam's dream is red and heavy with the scent of blood. It flows so easily past his tongue, rich and sweet. He's so thirsty and no water has ever sated him like blood does - did. Past the shame, past its wrongness, it had always filled him thoroughly.

He can let himself keep this, only in the dream, only here, for once, where he doesn't hurt anybody, where it's not a shame anymore. He drinks until his belly is full with it, and he can imagine his face, the smears of red on his chin when the blood's just too much for Sam to swallow it all and falls in rivulets on his hand, and on the floor.

The body under him goes slack, finally, but it's just a demon - a demon in a dream - and Sam eases it on the floor, one hand under the head so he can keep drinking.

Sam hates this dream the most.

*

Dean always dreams of hell whether he remembers it or not. Unlike Sam, he doesn't move from his bed, but the sheets are soaked with sweat in the morning, soft and wrinkled.

Tonight, Alastair is draining all the blood from the memory of his body. It's slow work, methodical, drop after drop through a spiral-shaped tube. It only stings a little when he thrusts it inside the fat vein at his neck and it's only mildly discomforting when Alastair wraps his demonic lips around it and sucks until Dean's blood drips steadily from it and forms a puddle around his feet.

It's not one of Dean's favorite ways to die. Alastair can draw it out for a long time and even though it doesn't hurt that much, it makes his body unresponsive and weak too heavy too carry. It makes his lips say things he'd rather keep secret and his eyes see things that can't be possibly here.

Alastair knows it, of course, and he smiles satisfied, and he eases him gently on the floor, a hand under his head. Though Dean's vision is hazy and hell is spinning fast above him, he swears he sees Sam's face.

Another hell trick, Dean thinks, before his lids get too heavy.

*

Eyes closed and brain muddled with sleep, Sam wonders where his nightly wanderings have brought him this time; he strains his ears, reluctant to really wake up and deal with the world just yet, but the room is silent over the noises coming from the street.

Probably, Dean's still asleep. Good, he needs it.  
\--


End file.
